At the next drill Burker was present and rode as Number Three in Section Six. As there were twenty-three (living) on parade I ordered Number Twenty-three to ride as Number Four of his section and leave a blank file. Burker rode in that blank file and drilled so, throughout--save that he would not dismount. Once, as the troop rode in column of sections, I fell to the rear and, coming up behind, struck with all my might at that slightly nebulous figure, with its faint vagueness of outline and hint of transparency. My heavy cutting-whip whistled--and touched nothing. I was as one who beats the air. Section Six must have thought me mad.... Twice again the dead man drilled with the living, and each time I described what happened to Major Jackson. "It is a persistent hallucination," said he; "you must go on leave." "I won't run from Burker, nor from a hallucination," I replied. Then came the end. At the next drill, twenty-one gentlemen were present and Number Twenty-one, the Sessions Judge of Duri, a Scot, kept staring with looks of amazement and alarm at Burker, who rode as Number Four on his flank, making an odd file into a skeleton section. I was certain that he saw Burker. As the gentlemen "dismissed" after parade, the Judge rode up to me and, with a white face, demanded:-- "Who the devil was that rode with me as Number Twenty-four? It was--it was--like--Sergeant Burker." "It _was_ Sergeant Burker, Sir," said I. "I knew it was," he replied, and added: "Man, you and I are fey." "Will you tell Major Jackson of this, Sir?" I begged. "He knows I have seen Burker's ghost here before, and tells me it is a hallucination." "I'll go and see him now." he replied. "He is an old friend of mine, and--he's a damned good doctor. Man--you and I are fey." He rode to where his trap, with its spirited cob, was awaiting him, dismounted and drove off. As everybody knows, Mr. Blake of the Indian Civil Service, Sessions Judge of Duri, was thrown from his trap and killed. It happened five minutes after he had said to me, with a queer look in his eyes, and a queer note in his voice, "Man! you and I are fey".... So it is no hallucination and I am haunted by Burker's ghost. Very good. I will fight Burker on his own ground. My ghost shall haunt Burker's ghost--or I shall be at peace. Though the religion of the Chaplain has failed me, the religion of my Mother, taught to me at her knee, has implanted in me an ineradicable belief in the ultimate justice of things, and the unquenchable hope of "somehow good". I am about to go before my Maker or to obliteration and oblivion. If the former, I am prepared to say to Him: "You made me a man. I have played the man. I look to you for justice, and that is--compensation and not 'forgiveness'. Much less is it punishment. You have treated me ill and given me no help. You have bestowed free-_will_ without free-_dom_. Compensate me or know Yourself unjust."